How To Seduce A Pirate (The Hawkins Brothers Series) Page 6

  She shivered at the grim thought. But she needn’t fret about his wellbeing tonight. He had returned and in robust health. She could hold him in her arms and dance with him, not worry about his next tour of duty or even the next day.

  After a brief hesitation, Quincy grasped her fingers and guided her toward the dance floor. She shuddered at the rough tenderness in his hold, and when he curled an arm around her waist and swept her across the room, she sighed with delight.

  “How was your voyage?” she wondered in a warm manner, hiding the quiver in her heart. She really didn’t want to hear about any near death escapes.

  “Unremarkable.”

  “And William?”

  “Alive.”

  His succinct answers, lacking any dangerous details, put her heart at ease and allowed her to focus on his sharp gaze instead, piercing her like arrowheads. She maintained his unwavering stare, wading in the dark blue pools of his eyes, relishing the passionate closeness.

  “I purchased a house on Park Street,” she announced in the same agreeable vein. “There is room for my sister, an art studio for myself and a separate bedroom for you.” Though she’d every intention of changing that last unpleasant fact, right quick.

  “You will not return to work as Lord H.”

  “I am capable of more than nudes, I assure you. I intend to paint for my own pleasure, any number of subjects. And I will not sell my work, nor expose it to public view. I must have a hobby.”

  Still he glowered. “Why did you reveal you identity as Lord H to Belle?”

  Ah, the thorn in his side. In the three months since his departure, Holly had made earnest efforts to befriend her in-laws and had found their sincere welcome of her the most wonderful gift. But she’d been unable to accept their generosity on false pretenses. How could she build camaraderie with her new family without first being truthful about her past?

  And so she’d confessed her identity as Lord H and the real reason behind her hasty marriage to their youngest brother, that he had not seduced her or acted in a dishonorable manner.

  Holly had dreaded making the admission. She had finally found a secure situation in life, and she would risk it by revealing a scandalous secret? But her brother-in-law, Edmund, already privy to her former identity as Lord H, had welcomed her into the fold. Perhaps the others would as well? she’d reasoned.

  Whatever the outcome, Holly would not allow the rest of the family to believe Quincy a blackguard. In the end, to her boundless relief, the Hawkins’s had accepted her in spite of her sordid past.

  “I revealed my former identity to your entire family,” she corrected.

  His features tightened. “Why?”

  “To take the stain off your character, of course.”

  “Bully to that! Belle is still furious with me.”

  “She’s furious with you because you allowed her to believe you were a dishonorable rake.”

  “Well, haven’t you done me a world of good? She now thinks I’m a liar instead of a dishonorable rake.”

  Holly flushed.

  “I warned you to leave the matter alone, wife.”

  If he thought to reproach her for her defiance by playing the part of the dominant husband, he would first have to be her husband.

  “I am a wife in name only, remember? And I will not always honor your wishes, husband.”

  The veins in his neck throbbed. “Is that so?”

  “It is, indeed.” And then she pressed her breasts against his hard chest, touched his ear with her lips and whispered, “But if you ever care to be a real husband, do let me know.”

  And with that invitation, she sashayed off the dance floor.

  ~ * ~

  Quincy remained rooted to the dance floor. As resplendent couples twirled around him, the blood in his veins pounded with such ferocious intensity, he thought his head would burst from the pressure.

  Had the audacious wench just disobeyed him and invited him to bed?

  His fingers ticked, his cock stirred. He was going to cause a spectacle and ruin his brother’s engagement ball.

  In swift strides, Quincy stormed from the ballroom. He burst through the terrace doors and prowled the flagstone courtyard, searching for something to crush with his hands. When he discovered a bench, he slammed his fists into the seat, splintering the wood. He thought of turning the bench over and ramming it into the ground, when mordant laughter captured his senses.

  ”Piss off, James!”

  His brother crossed the terrace with a knowing grin. “I once fractured my knuckles after a fight with Sophia, shoved my fist right into a wall.”

  “Is that why you’re being such a charming ass? You know I’m in hell?”

  “Aye.”

  Quincy clenched his palms, aching for a fight, but his sadistic brother wasn’t going to give him one, relishing instead in his torment.

  “I can’t live with her, James.”

  He shrugged. “You spend most of the year at sea.”

  “I’ll stay in a hotel when I’m on land.”

  “And spread rumor of an abandoned bride? You can’t avoid her, Quincy. She’s your wife.”

  And with another ruthless smirk, James sauntered back inside the ballroom, his last words hanging over Quincy like a noose.

  She’s your wife.

  His innards twisted with want. Aye, she was his wife. And she was intent on her blasted wedding night. It wasn’t enough he had saved her reputation? He had to surrender his body, too? Why? What did she want? Children?

  Well, she could take a damn lover and have her infernal wedding night. He’d claim any of her offspring as his own. There were already hordes of men salivating over her now that she was wed, plenty of candidates to choose from.

  A maiden was dangerous territory, always leading to wedlock—he knew firsthand—but a married woman was the perfect mistress, offering an affair without the risk of a nuptial entanglement.

  As soon as the vision of another man grinding over his wife flashed through his mind, though, a murderous impulse streamed through his blood.

  “You must be so tired after your long voyage.”

  Her gentle voice came over him like a hammer. He trembled with fury. And more. He trembled with unfathomable lust. He’d never wanted to bed a woman with such intensity in all his life. He doubted another wench would satisfy him—and that worried him.

  Immensely.

  Quincy girded his muscles as he turned toward the terrace doors and found his wife in angelic amity, the ballroom lights illuminating her shapely silhouette.

  She had been spending his money carte blanche, he thought, nettled. She looked damned rich in her shimmering satin gown and bejeweled headpiece—and bloody beautiful, too. Her low cut bodice cupped her firm breasts, elongated her slender neck and framed her heart-shaped lips. He dragged in mouthfuls of air as his blood simmered with achingly familiar hunger.

  “Shall we retire?” She stepped forward, her hips swinging. Her eyes narrowed on him with such intent, he shuddered. “I’ll have the staff prepare your room. A light supper, too.”

  He imagined her in his bed, screaming his name as she orgasmed, drawing him deeper into her womb, and he shuddered again.

  “No.”

  “All right, if you’re not hungry.”

  “Oh, I’m hungry,” he rasped, his erection pressing against his trousers. “I’ll be at Madam Barovski’s for the rest of the night.”

  He headed through the garden, pounding the grass.

  “I’m afraid you’re banned from Madam Barovski’s establishment.”

  He stilled. “What?”

  “She wants nothing more to do with you, not since your brother’s visit to her gaming hell some months ago.”

  Slowly he turned toward her again. “Who told you this?”

  “Your brother, Edmund.”

  Damn! Edmund had threatened the gaming mistress with ruination unless she confessed the identity of Lord H. Quincy would have to find another haunt to fulfill h
is needs.

  Unbelievable. He’d yet another reason to throttle his wife.

  And why was his wench-of-a-wife talking to Edmund about his haunts? Or conversing with James for that matter? Or Belle? And about such intimacies?

  “I’ve already sent for the carriage,” she said in a quaint, almost innocent manner. “You really should rest.”

  He gritted his teeth. She would not take what was left of him, he vowed. His body was his to give alone. And while he’d no experience resisting a luscious woman, he was determined to resist this one.

  You can’t avoid her. She’s your wife.

  She was his wife. And he would put her in her rightful place, make it clear to her there would be no wedding night between them.

  Ever.

  But how? He wasn’t a brute. He usually charmed a woman into giving him what he wanted with a smile, a wink, a few craftily whispered words. He sure as hell couldn’t charm his own wife, though.

  Bullocks.

  CHAPTER 10

  As the carriage jounced through the gas illuminated streets, Holly clasped her hands in her lap—though she envisioned clasping them around her husband’s throat. Imagine, returning from a dangerous three month voyage and outright confessing to a new, worried bride you were off to a den of sin to bed a whore!

  It took every bit of her self-restraint to maintain an agreeable manner and amiable tone, and to keep from clobbering her husband with her shoe. The nerve. The bullheadedness. The rake. And she had defended his honor. What rubbish! She should have left the matter alone as he’d bidden her. Instead, she’d risked alienating her new family by confessing her scandalous past and ennobling her husband.

  “Are you all right?”

  Holly snapped her head away from the window and glared at the man. “What?”

  “You’re huffing,” said Quincy. “Often.”

  Was she? “I’m fine. Tired, is all.”

  “Hmm.” He crossed his arms over his chest and stretched out his long legs, bumping her shin. “It must be very tiring indeed, flirting with so many men?”

  She shivered at his incidental touch. He had noticed the pack of roués, had he? She humphed. The men were an infernal nuisance, to use her husband’s turn of phrase. She had once coveted such amorous attention, but since meeting her desirable husband, no other man had captured her interest.

  Wait! Was Quincy jealous? She glanced at his furrowed brow and dark frown. A warmth settled in her belly at the delightful thought, and she decided to turn the frustrating situation into an advantageous one.

  She smiled. “Yes, I shall have to acquire a little notebook to keep all their names straight in my mind.”

  The conversation ended there, followed by a tense silence. When the carriage rolled up to a flat faced townhouse with three rows of six paned windows and an elegant lintel above the front door, alight with sconces, Quincy exited the vehicle and climbed the front step, pounding on the door, leaving her unattended in the carriage.

  Well, she’d ignited his jealousy. She only hoped she hadn’t pushed him too far with the innuendo of other lovers. She had to keep the fire between them burning. If ever his disposition toward her changed, turned indifferent, their marriage would truly be in name only, having withered to ash.

  She tottered from the vehicle before the driver whipped the horses and headed around the corner to the stables at the rear of the house.

  The front door opened.

  Quincy charged indoors, passing the aghast butler, and headed for the stairs.

  “It’s all right, Thompson,” she assured the elderly servant as she stepped into the entrance hall. “Meet your new master, Mr. Hawkins.” As Quincy mounted the stairs, she called after him, “Would you like me to give you a tour of the house?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t even know which bedroom is yours, though.”

  “I’ll recognize my own bleedin’ furniture.”

  He crossed the landing, disappearing from view, his heavy footfalls marching through the upstairs passageways.

  Holly sighed. “He’s tired,” she reassured a frowning Thompson. “He has been at sea for months and needs rest. He’s really rather charming otherwise.”

  The dubious butler nodded in silence and collected her shawl. “And Miss Turner?”

  “Still at the ball. Captain and Mrs. Hawkins will escort her home.”

  Holly trusted Captain James Hawkins and his wife to chaperone her sister. One ominous glare from the imposing captain would squash any licentious intents toward Emma, so there was no reason to curtail the girl’s fun with an early departure. Besides, Holly had hoped for time alone with her husband, a pleasant conversation over a late supper perhaps. Regrettably, her hopes had been dashed.

  As she climbed the stairs, a stark bellow resounded through the house.

  “Holly!”

  She scowled. The first time her husband used her Christian name and it was in the tone of a disapproving parent. How ignoble. Was he mad? Had he no manners? His outrageous behavior was fodder for servant gossip. And what the devil was the matter now?

  She rushed up the stairs, skirt in hands, and rounded the corner. She found the door to her art studio ajar—and smirked.

  Holly smoothed her satin skirt before gracefully entering the room, ablaze with newly installed gas lamps. Her husband, searching for his own private chamber, had turned up the lights to discover her workspace and had obviously snooped around.

  After closing the door, she asked in her most pleasant voice, “Yes?”

  “What is that doing here?” he demanded, drape in hand. His features turned a crimson red as he pointed at the painting of himself, the sensual painting that’d caused so much trouble.

  “It was found under your bed during the move from St. James’s.”

  “Why is it still in one piece? I thought you had destroyed every infernal nude.”

  “I destroyed every nude in my studio at the cottage. This was not at my cottage. And since you had stored it under your bed . . .” She shrugged. “I thought you’d wanted to keep it.”

  “Are you mad? I wanted to burn the wretched thing, but our wedding and my tour at sea prevented me from torching it.”

  He headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?” she cried.

  “To fetch matches.”

  “No!” Holly dashed toward the door and barricaded it with her body. “You will not destroy that painting.”

  His body, heaving with fury, leaned over hers. “Move away from the door, wench.”

  “You can’t burn it.”

  “I own it. I can do anything I damn well please with it.”

  “You also own this house. Will you burn it, too?”

  “If it pleases me, aye.”

  She snorted. “A ridiculous reason. That painting is my greatest work. You will not destroy it.”

  “Your greatest work marks one of the worst moments in my life.”

  “Then don’t come in here.” She snatched the drape from his hand. “I didn’t invite you into my private studio. I would like you to leave, please.”

  She hastened back to the artwork, veiling it to protect it from sunlight, dust and any paint splatter that might occur from future works.

  Quincy glared at her from the door. “What about the servants? And your sister? I won’t have anyone ogling that painting.”

  While Holly had hired new staff, she had also retained two of her former servants, the maid and gardener from the cottage. And she had already trained all the employees about the strict running of the household.

  “The servants do not come into my studio, nor does Emma. Ever since I converted the potting shed at the cottage into an art studio, that has been the rule. No one will ever look at this painting, except me.”

  His breathing deepened, turned to rasps of air. “You?”

  She confronted her husband again, his eyes glowing like embers. “Yes, me. If all I will ever have of you is what I took and put in this painting, the
n I will keep the painting and look at it whenever it pleases me.”

  Her declaration must have set off an explosive fire inside him, for his expression twisted, turning both tortuous and ravenous. Her own body flared with heat, and she longed for his primal touch, his sensuous kiss, but after a few strained moments, he swiveled his stone hard posture and left the room.

  Holly sighed with a blend of disappointment and hope.

  One day, she vowed.

  One day she would have her husband.

  CHAPTER 11

  Quincy slammed the door of his bedchamber and prowled the room. He rent the cravat from his neck and stripped off his jacket and vest. That woman! That infernal woman! She would keep the wretched nude? Stare at it whenever it pleased her? Stare at him whenever it pleased her?

  He kicked off his shoes, sending both into the wall. He’d torch that painting yet, he vowed. He wouldn’t give her the pleasure of keeping it, of keeping him, like a sideshow bear trapped in a cage. She would not have any part of him, not even his likeness.

  Pulling the shirt up over his head, he dropped it, too, to the floor. Was she staring at it right now? he wondered, then stopped in his tracks. His every muscle cramped at the thought of her penetrating eyes caressing the canvas, her elfin fingers grazing the fabric in sensual want.

  As if he’d felt her arousing touch, he shuddered.

  Burn it.

  Definitely.

  Quincy crouched beside the sea chest at the foot of his bed and rummaged through the contents, searching for the satchel of opium capsules stored somewhere inside. He needed the drug’s numbing effect, its blissful ability to blot out torments. He damn well didn’t want to think about his wife wanting him. Or wanting other men.

  He stilled as he remembered the lechers salivating over her during the engagement ball. And her “little notebook” of the men’s names? Perhaps she’d already had an affair? He’d been gone three months and hadn’t a deuced idea what she’d done—unsupervised—in all that time.

  No, she wouldn’t take a lover while he was at sea. If she became pregnant, it would be mighty obvious he wasn’t the father. She would time her affairs with his furloughs, the wench. And if she was having an affair right now?